Tapestries
by silentlyatnight
Summary: Collection of unrelated oneshots. 1:Zacharias Smith 2:Salazar Slytherin 3:Dobby&Romione 4:JamesSirius 5:Drastoria 6:AngelinaGeorge 7:Regulus 8:Dean 9:Golden Trio 10:Ignotus Peverell 11:Minerva McG 12:Magenta Comstock
1. Zacharias Smith comments

**Written for QLFC Season 5, Final Round 2  
Team:** Wigtown Wanderers  
 **Position:** Chaser 1  
 **Position Prompt:** Z: Zacharias Smith, Zombie Trail, Zombie, Zip

 **Additional Prompts:  
** 6\. (object) textbook  
10\. (quote) Bloody hell! - Ron Weasley  
12\. (sound) gasp

 **Word Count:** 910

 **Beta(s):** Aya. Thank you so much!

 **AU** **in which Voldemort didn't die but was taken to Azkaban. Since we don't know anything about Zacharias' fate after the war, I made him a journalist.**

* * *

 **Once a zombie, he now risks becoming a symbol.**

Zacharias Smith comments.

The relieved breaths we all took following Voldemort's imprisonment have just turned into gasps this morning when the entire magical community woke up to find these words on the front pages and on everyone's lips: Voldemort is dead. To the most, it feels like the end of a nightmare. The _true_ and only possible end.

Fifteen years ago, seeing Voldemort's wand flying towards Harry Potter's waiting hand was victory enough for us, eager to see what we wanted to see: the end of the war, the illusion of peace. For a long time it worked. To sedate and numb any doubt was the motto. People had to believe in peace, the Chosen One, and the Light side. As blindly as ever.

"The enemy is defeated," they told as they took Lord Voldemort to Azkaban. Hollow words. Anonymous words. It didn't matter back then to deal with the aftermath. Just to sweep it under the carpet. After all, it had worked for Grindelwald — solid bars and four walls were enough to end his reign of terror if our textbooks are to be trusted.

But what of this most recent execution?

Today, the evil wizard formerly known as You-Know-Who or the Dark Lord is finally dead, and with him the threat he posed to equality, tolerance, and freedom. He was not eliminated by the usual Kiss. No, Lord Voldemort, infamous Muggle-hater, was killed by a gun — three bullets shot right in the heart. Cruel vengeance, some say. Poetic justice, others claim: worth celebrating.

"We celebrate, too." is the banner headline on the last issue of The Daily Prophet. Under it, a big picture of a phoenix and a quote by former Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, are featured. It reads, "Who cares? It is what it is. The only thing that matters is the result, and the joy we share is a homage to equality."

Let's hope it is. Let's hope that the many parties thrown to celebrate Voldemort's death marked the true end of the war and not just another Quidditch winning game. Let's hope all those young boys and girls are truly aware of what this death means to those who truly fought this war and didn't just learn of it from a cold textbook. Let's hope all of this means emancipation from terror.

But how can we be certain of it? Can this unexpected execution truly erase any and every doubt that he won't rise from the ashes again? Does his death truly mean the definitive end of the prejudice even fifteen years after the war? Is there not a risk that a living symbol will blossom from his corpse at the hand of his few supporters still hiding in the shadows?

Even before his demise, You-Know-Who held no more resemblance to his former young self. He was just a body, a dead body, reanimated various times. In fact, in many ways, it would not be wrong to say that he was no more than a zombie, odd as it may sound to those of us who have met those dangerous creatures in Zombie Trail.

And yet, according to Haitian folklore, which is where the term comes from, a zombie is just an undead brought back to life, an undead being who misses part of its soul. This is no different from Voldemort's soul, split into seven pieces.

Perhaps it's no wonder, then, that Lord Voldemort was considered no more than a zombie by all who visited him in Azkaban — he had been slowly losing his soul. Perhaps the Kiss was attempted but didn't work because there wasn't any soul to suck.

In his last years, he had been fading like a bad memory and was but an off-season leader to his stray Death Eaters that managed to escape. Killing him during or in the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts would have spared us some post-war skirmishes and earned us a much deserved praise. But killing him now, after fifteen years, may prove to be strategically counterproductive because it awakens yet again the Muggle-hating beast lingering in the wizarding world.

When zip fasteners were introduced to us the first time, they warned, "If your zip sticks, it might be because it caught a thread." That is to say, on an apparently unrelated note, that even something so small that was invented to avoid any problem in clothing is not without risk.

How are we to expect that Voldemort's death won't have any other consequences than rejoicing?

Granted, as said above, it was just a symbolic execution as You-Know-Who was not a threat any longer. It was just meant to be a general reminder. As they put it, "It is done, and it was done for the best."

But to a few rebels, he risks becoming a myth, a hero. His death, still legitimate despite being so cold and late, risks becoming an incitement to vengeance. The war might be sparkled again. Not to mention we don't know if the Dark Lord can be reanimated once more, something that couldn't happen as long as he was locked up in a cell, still living but harmless.

Now all of this doubles the peril that the small minority of stray Death Eaters gets reorganized to claim and avenge their former leader that they, too, had apparently forgotten.

Welcome back to hell, a quite literally bloody hell.


	2. Eternity in its eyes (Salazar)

**QLFC, Puddlemere Seeker (reserve): Write about getting a pet for the first time and it turning out to be different than expected**

 **TGS, Ollivander's Wand Shop, Basilisk horn: Write about Salazar Slytherin.  
TGS, Through the Universe: Yellow Dwarf — (feeling) very unstable**

Summary: Godric's thoughts are honed blades, Rowena's are rushes of wind, and Helga's are seeds growing underground. But the Basilisk's—they can be spirals of alluring blood and death

Many thanks to _desertredwolf_ and _finnixfire_ for being so patient and beta'ing this for me! :3

* * *

 _ **Eternity in its eyes  
**_

* * *

It's autumn, the season when snakes seek shelter from the unforgiving cold of winter, and Salazar wishes more than anything he could follow their example as he hears the fallen leaves creak under his boots, the sound discordant and too close to bones being broken.

 _Human bones_ , he thinks with a shudder, knowing very well that he can only delude himself into blaming the sudden rush of wind for it. He still does, his mind malleable and compliant at his will as almost anyone else's. And it's only thanks to that same willpower that he resists the urge to look at his feet, maybe for fear of catching a glimpse of white.

Helga—innocent, trusting, _loving_ Helga—brushes his arm. _Do not worry yourself_ , she seems to say. Of course she would; she understands the world and loves it as it is. She never comments on his reactions, just smiles at him, her eyes huge and melancholic as if she knows…

He looks elsewhere, unable to tolerate her mute, early forgiveness which he expects—hopes?—to see on her face.

 _Do not worry yourself._

He wishes he could agree. But she's wrong. The other people don't have her heart, and those who do… Well, they're weak, easily corrupted.

He can't stand her sympathy, not when no one has ever shown him any, so ignoring Helga's "Wait!" he turns his back on the castle and escapes Godric's scoldings and Rowena's sharp remarks.

He finds them all annoying and patronizing, and the fact that his mind is weakening and becoming more and more vulnerable has nothing to do with it. _Most definitely_.

(Later, a different autumn, a warmer one, will bring these memories back, softening them and coloring them with longing.)

.o.

 _The creature was slowly sliding towards him, its coils shining at each move._

 _Salazar had been around snakes for his entire life. They had come looking for him when, no more than a little boy, he lived alone in a cave, and they had been safe,_ familiar _even. Having a viper wrapped around his arm had felt like holding his wand—it just belonged. So he couldn't explain the sudden nervousness setting down his stomach at seeing the magnificent Basilisk..._ strutting— _it was the only word that could describe it—in front of his eyes, the action idle and confident at the same time. Deliberate. Proud._

 _Salazar was fascinated—his teenage naivety mixed with the boldness that comes with being young convincing him that it would be a good idea to keep the Basilisk. The other snakes had been unworthy of him, and any other animal avoided him (much like any human being he knew), so some company would be appreciated._

 _The Basilisk seemed to share his thoughts as it hissed,_ "Come and sit here," _its tone reassuring as it pointed at a large stone with its tail._ "It is rare that I find any of your kind who speaks the Sacred Tongue" _His words carried suspicion and, maybe, a begrudging respect so Salazar, honored, complied, seeing it as an opening._

.o.

He leans heavily towards a tree, feeling unstable, and pants while clutching at his head. He went too far once again, too deep in the Basilisk's head, and now he must struggle to tidy up his own mind as unspeakable horrors that do not belong there resurface, overpowering any other feeling or thought.

The exposure to the Serpent King's mind leaves him emptied as it always does, making it almost impossible to hold onto his sanity or to separate his memories from the monster's.

.o.

It can't really be a monster, _Salazar thought as he sat down, unaware of what he was getting himself into. His head was bowed to protect his eyes from the yellow, lethal ones._

 _In hindsight, he would come to regret that gesture—a universal sign of submission—and his easy compliance to the Basilisk's veiled order. He had unknowingly exposed himself. But, at the time, it had seemed polite. He was trying to win the creature over after all, conscious that no one had ever been able to resist him and his silver tongue, if he so chose. How hard could it be to tame an animal?_

 _The Basilisk spoke words of wisdom, tales of a long forgotten past from before the little town nearby was even founded. Salazar listened intently to what people considered to be the spirit present in every river, glen, and hill._

 _The Serpent King let him go unscathed._

 _Salazar came back._

 _It became routine, an easy one that gave him a sense of security until the day the Basilisk followed him, its coils brushing his legs._

 _It was familiar, domestic, and he felt like he had won something. Something good and powerful, that belonged only to him._

 _He'd never had anything of his own before._

.o.

Clearly, the Basilisk must have been thinking something along the same lines when he regarded Salazar with its lethal eyes that he has never met, but that he has no trouble imagining calculating and cold. They were eyes that belonged to an ancient being, one that has absorbed everything the world had to offer, magic included, and never gives anything in return but spilled blood and chewed bones.

The old legends were wrong, as is often the case. It's not the Basilisk who is in every river, glen, and hill, but the other way around. So it's no wonder that Salazar now finds himself not only drained but ensnared, deceived.

Godric's thoughts are honed blades, Rowena's are rushes of wind, and Helga's are seeds growing underground. But the Basilisk's—they can be spirals of alluring blood and death while being, at the same time, as sweet as honey. And of course, it doesn't help that Parseltongue is a soft, insinuating language.

Lately, he has been feeling the dangers of this weird bond between human and reptile, but he has ultimately chosen to ignore it. And not because the monster's instincts have taken over—a pressing _blood, blood, blood_ reverberating in his ears—but because the school needs protection. And what's better than an enormous reptile—Salazar's pet?

Surprising even himself, Salazar bows his head, persuaded.

* * *

w.c. 1020


	3. Dobby knows better (Romione)

Summary - AU: no Voldemort. Dobby liked helping people out and he had never seen two people who needed help more than Harry Potter's _Wheezy_ and their friend, the girl who spread socks and other items of clothing all over Hogwarts. (Romione)

Genre: humor/romance

A/N I tried to get Dobby's pov right so, even if I didn't really had him think wrong English (it'd have been too much), repetitions are intentional…

AU, No Voldemort AU, but Dobby is still a free Elf :)

Many thanks to my wonderful beta(s): DinoDina

(prompts listed at the bottom)

* * *

 **Dobby knows better**

* * *

Dobby knew that he really shouldn't — _he should be punished, actually_ , he thought, raising his hands to his ears — but Dobby was just trying to help. Dobby liked helping people out and he had never seen two people who needed help more than Harry Potter's _Wheezy_ and their friend, the girl who spread socks and other items of clothing all over Hogwarts.

Dobby hesitated for a moment before daring to think it, quietly even in his own head: _Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger_. He tensed before releasing a sigh of relief — nothing had happened. He could say their names without addressing them by their titles. Dobby smiled; Miss Granger would be so happy!

 _Oh!_ His shoulders slumped. He had done it again.

 _Hermione Granger. Miss Hermione Granger. Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley_ , he repeated, his lips pressed as he willed himself to do it. _Mrs. Hermione Weasley_. Was that good? Yes, it was. That title couldn't displease her, Dobby just knew.

With a smile, he focused back on the conversation that had been going on for a while now. Dobby shouldn't, Dobby really, really shouldn't be eavesdropping — _bad Dobby, bad Dobby!_ — but there would be time to punish himself later.

Now… Now Dobby could just find something to do in the room, like cleaning up a little, unseen. And if some students were talking in the Common Room, that was hardly his fault.

"Come on, Hermione!" Mr. Weasley — _Ronald, Ron Weasley_ — was saying for the umpteenth time. "A book, a bag, a scarf… There must be something you nee —"

"I don't need anything. I'm giving you carte blanche." _Hermione Granger_ peered up at _Ronald Weasley_ from the armchair where she was sitting and reading a book, her eyes sort of mischievous. "Surprise me!"

Mr. Weasley collapsed on the nearest chair and said, "Fine, but don't complain if you get stuck with a mug!" before mumbling something more under his breath.

Dobby looked around: where was Harry Potter? He was just standing in a corner, an amused expression on his face. Some friend he was!

Dobby sighed as _Ron Weasley_ and _Hermione Granger_ kept glancing at each other, both longing and bashfulness in their gazes. Yes, those two needed help, and fortunately for them, Dobby was here.

Bad Dobby shouldn't have been eavesdropping, but —

"So… what are you going to do?" Harry Potter quietly said to his best friend.

"I may have a plan. Don't worry." Mr. Weasley quickly closed and opened one eye. _Wink, that was a wink_ , Dobby thought.

Humans were so complicated.

.o.

Dobby had _accidentally_ been folding some laundry in the Gryffindor Girls' Dormitory, unseen once again, like any good House-Elf would be, and keeping a close eye on Miss Granger.

"Hermione," Miss Patil said, "I was wondering… Is there a book you haven't read yet?"

The question surprised both Dobby and Hermione Granger.

"Oh, tons and tons," she said.

"And amongst them," Miss Patil asked, "which would you prefer having?" She casually looked at her nails, her tone light.

Well, this was weird. Unless… _Oh!_ Dobby thought, tilting his head. That was Ronald Weasley's plan?

"I'd like —" Hermione shut up, clearly having reached the same conclusion as Dobby's. "They're too many. I can't choose now."

Dobby really wanted to help, but those two didn't make it any easier.

In the meantime, Miss Patil was trying again. "Ah, and…" She sniffed. "You smell good. What is your perfume? I never asked."

"A Muggle one. I don't remember its name," was Hermione Granger's answer.

"Oh, ehm… Ah!" Miss Patil glanced outside. "It's really… windy, isn't it? Don't you want a scarf too?"

This wasn't going anywhere, and now Dobby was a bit offended. This was the plan? Really? Hadn't it even occurred to Mr. Ronald Weasley that there were creatures who would willingly and more successfully help him?

Dobby had to remind himself that the Weasleys weren't like the other Pureblood families, they wouldn't take advantage of House-Elves just like that, but Dobby… Dobby was different too. And he really, really liked helping his friends out!

"I noticed you never wear jewels," Miss Patil was saying, a bit desperately.

Dobby sighed. Bad Dobby was still eavesdropping, the laundry forgotten.

 _Bad Dobby, bad Dobby._

.o.

"Bloody hell!" was Ronald Weasley's expected reaction when Dobby checked on him right after Miss Patil had reported the outcome of her mission.

"I really wanted to do something nice for her this year," he said, looking down. "Something special, meaningful," he whispered.

"I don't understand why you're making such a big deal out of this," Harry Potter said. "You know she'll like everything you gift her."

"It's just…" Mr. weasley shook his head and headed towards their Dormitory, leaving a puzzled Harry Potter behind. "I just love…"

Dobby smiled. This, Dobby could work with to help them.

.o.

Surprisingly, or maybe not so much, waiting for Hermione Granger to even think those three words took longer, but Dobby was patient. He had time and many chores to complete whenever Hermione Granger and her female friends were around. And most importantly, he was there when she opened Ronald Weasley's present, which she had saved for last: a simple mug as the boy had threatened.

Dobby sighed. He himself had hoped… Well, never mind. Mr. Weasley had tried, maybe in the wrong way, but Dobby had seen how the boy had been up late, wringing his hands and picking at his lips.

The look on Miss Granger's face now was very telling in its own way, yet not enough for Dobby's purposes.

It was still nice to get his suspicions confirmed though. Hermione Granger's was clearly disappointed not by the mug itself but by the idea that the boy she liked had given up on her.

The sadness in her eyes when she turned to Miss Weasley to show her the mug almost broke Dobby's heart, but there was nothing he could do if she refused to cooperate. It's not like Dobby could snap his fingers and force her to admit her feelings.

 _Humans!_ he thought, unamused.

.o.

Months later, Dobby was way past the point of no return. The number of his transgressions had rapidly increased until he had lost count, so one more or less really didn't make any difference. Not when he might finally have the opportunity to gather the last piece of information he needed to solve all this mess.

With a soft _crack_ , he left Hogwarts without permission and Apparated at the Burrow, where he knew Hermione was spending part of the Christmas holidays.

"He's an idiot," Hermione Granger was screaming. "A brainless idiot. I can't stand him!"

Miss Weasley patted her on her shoulder. "Did you argue with Ron again?"

"I hate him. He behaves like he doesn't care. He doesn't care. I-I —" Her sentence got caught in a hitch.

"You love him."

"W-What?" Miss Granger gaped. "No, no… Wait! I mean, what did you say?"

"You love him, and you know it."

"I…" She blinked several times. "Yes. Damn him."

With a snap of his fingers, Dobby disappeared, a huge grin on his face.

Now he only needed two vials to put his memories into so he could gift the ones about Ronald Weasley to Hermione Granger and vice versa. Anonymously.

He was sure they'd appreciate it. All of Hogwarts would appreciate it, actually, Harry Potter included — having two best friends like them was bound to give him headaches.

And for once, Dobby didn't plan to stick around to see their reactions, not because of some belated scruple, but because he already knew the outcome, and it would just be boring.

Plus, he had a very oblivious Harry Potter and a very stubborn Miss Weasley to take care of now.

* * *

 **The Golden Snitch** forum (Mahoutokoro, Mizu)  
-The Golden Chase 2018 (Happy Birthday Harry!): prompt nr. 4  
-Dreamcatchers Challenge: Dream: Write a story featuring a known 'light' character  
-Ollivander's Wand Shop: 9 inch: Write about a Gryffindor character.  
-Through the Universe: Dwarf Planet: (character) Dobby  
-World Doll Day: Waitress, 2011: Write about a house-elf

 **QLFC** , S6 R6, Wigtown Wanderers, Keeper. June: Draco Malfoy, Dudley Dursley, Dobby.

word count: ~ 1300


	4. No, no, no (JamesSirius)

The Golden Snitch

-[Challenge]The Golden Chase 2018 (Happy Birthday Harry!): prompt nr. 4  
-Hairdresser, 2008: Write about a character with fabulous hair (Sirius)  
-Photosphere — (words) brighter than a thousand suns  
-Ollivander: Cypress: write about a Pureblood

Summary: He can't believe it really happened. James, his James. Dead.

Genre: tragedy

* * *

 **No, no, no**

* * *

No

No, no, no.

No.

Sirius, kneeled on the floor, a hand buried in his own hair, can't think of anything else. Those two simple letters lie heavily in his head and can't be removed from it.

It can't have happened.

He can't believe it really happened.

James, his James. Dead. He has slipped right through his fingers.

No.

Any life, his own life, without James Potter in it is like imagining the day without the sun, the night without any star. No, it's not possible.

And yet here they are.

Why?

Sirius blinks the tears away and bows his head, letting his black hair block the sight of those lifeless hazel eyes for a brief moment, the same eyes that had once shone brighter than a thousand suns.

He's always known everyone meets their end sooner and later, but James' has happened too soon. Too quickly.

It seems like only yesterday when Sirius first came to Hogwarts, his heart in his throat. When he was sorted into Gryffindor. When a little kid with bright hazel eyes and messy hair talked to him, a silly question, unbothered by Sirius' Black blood.

Who could have thought that from a few random words, such a deep bond would be created?

Friends.

Brothers.

Family.

A strong, true friendship.

A great love and affection whose boundaries blurred. It just grew over the years. And while people struggled to define whatever was between them, James and Sirius knew there were no fitting labels. The two of them just... were.

Secret hugs, stolen kisses, hidden feelings, wrapped up in the darkness with only the twinkling stars as witnessess.

They were together.

They were happy.

And what is left of all of that now? Nothing.

Just a cold, empty body. A vanished soul that brought with itself not just his James, but three equally important personas: a friend (his best friend), a brother (his only brother), a love (his true love).

And Sirius can only pull out his own hair in his grief while crying and holding tight that precious body, in the vain hope that those hazel eyes, now foggy and unrecognizing, will focus on him once again, will see him like only James could - like Sirius was worth something. Because the way James looked at his Sirius was different from the gaze he directed at anyone else, and Sirius felt loved.

If James woke up ("Do wake up, James!"), he'd tease Sirius, his voice ironic, paternalistic, cocky, for the tears he's shedding, but after a few moments, a strong pair of arm would encircle Sirius, and the voice would grow sweet and protective. Concerned. Loving. Reassuring.

"I'll never leave you, Sirius," James would say while petting his hair. "I'll always stand by you."

James promised, but his eyes stay close, unseeing, and his lips are turning pale.

Those tender gestures and reassurances are in the past, no more than a distant memory.

James brought Sirius' heart with him. And how can a man live without his heart?

"James, brother," he says. "What about Harry and me? How do we do this? How do we move on? How?" Sirius' voice broke on the last word. "P-Please?"

Only the silence answers.

And Sirius stays there on his knees, unable to get away from that dead body or to stop his bitter tears.

Hugging James closer and whispering goodbyes and promises to care for Harry, Sirius mourns. Mourns his best friend, his brother, his everything. His ray of happiness.


	5. Jealousy (Drastoria)

The Golden Snitch:

-[Challenge]The Golden Chase 2018 (Happy Birthday Harry!): prompt nr. 1  
-Through the universe: Gamma-ray — (word) bouncing  
-Ollivander: Write about a Slytherin character

A poor attempt at Drastoria… some OOC-ness, I think.

* * *

Jealousy

* * *

Seeing Pansy being all over Draco like that greatly upset Astoria, who willed herself not to even glance at the two of them, straightening her shoulders and focusing on the food in front of her.

Her sister Daphne was gossiping with her friend about her new beau, and Astoria figured she could distract herself with that.

But, alas, it couldn't be.

Pansy's laughter resounded in the Great Hall once again, bouncing from wall to wall, apparently endless, which only increased Astoria's discomfort.

She glanced at Draco: he was sitting up straight, a polite smile plastered on his lips. Nothing in his posture suggested that he welcomed Pansy's advance in any way, but Astoria couldn't help herself.

She hadn't even been aware she was prone to jealousy - how unbecoming! - until now, yet here she was, furious with the world for the impossible situation she had found herself in. She was furious with Pansy' flirtatious nature while Astoria was too quiet, too self-conscious; with Draco for not noticing her discomfort; with Daphne for gossiping like nothing was happening. And most of all, she was angry at herself. She shouldn't be feeling like that. It was wrong of her.

After all, even if it wasn't official, Draco and she did share something, and she should be able to trust him.

Pansy laughed again, and Astoria's shoulders slumped.

This was hopeless.

.o.o.

Jealous, upset, and sad. And alone. That's how Astoria felt while going back to the Slytherin Common Room, dragging her feet.

"Hey."

Hearing someone so close to her, while she thought she was alone with her painful thoughts, startled her.

It was him.

"Is everything alright?" Draco asked. "You disappeared right after dinner…"

"Fine. I'm just fine." Astoria forced himself to smile.

Draco glanced at her, pensively, and she knew he had noticed her little lie.

"Come on, we can walk to the Common Room together," he said.

Neither broke the silence for a while. She was confused by his sudden appearance, and clearly, he didn't want to intrude on her. But she still felt his gaze on her often enough to remember that even if she didn't look at him, he was still here.

It was something, she guessed.

Suddenly, he put a hand on her shoulder, stopping her. "Tell me what's bothering you."

"It's nothing. I'm… er…" She was embarrassed. "I'm jealous."

To her utter relief, he didn't laugh. He was baffled. "Of who? Pansy?"

Astoria didn't know what to say. Wasn't it obvious?

"Do you really think," he asked, "that I'd be able to -"

She hesitated. No, she didn't really believe that, but… but… Jealousy was a tricky thing, she had discovered. It didn't need any proof to grow into a huge monster.

"Don't worry, Astoria," he said, wrapping a arm around her shoulder. "There's no need to."

"You sure?"

He stiffened and when he next spoke, his tone was colder: "Of course I'm sure!"

"Oh, I didn't… I mean, I trust you. Of course I trust you," she said, stumbling on her words. "I just need…" How could she even explained that she needed some more reassurance about her place in his life. That she wasn't like other girls who only searched for a quick hook-up.

But then, she felt him relax at her confused words, and she relaxed too, some fear leaving her.

"I want you to listen to me very carefully." Draco sounded nervous and she immediately nodded. "I… uh… I'd never risk losing you. I… You... "

She understood what he was trying to say, and realized she didn't really need him to say it. Not now. Not here. "Me too," she whispered. "Me too."


	6. Not quite the same (AngelinaGeorge)

The Golden Snitch:

-[Challenge]The Golden Chase 2018 (Happy Birthday Harry!): prompt nr. 5  
-Through the universe: Quasar — (word) twinkle

wc: 515

just some GeorgeAngelina and how their relationship grew. As fluffy as possible, because they deserve it :)

* * *

Not quite the same

* * *

He had the same smile, the same nose, the same eyes, the same hair. They even talked the same way, shared the same mannerisms. But he wasn't him, and while she appreciated it — the only thing Fred and she had had in common was George, after all — she wasn't sure about George's thoughts on their 'arrangement'. She couldn't honestly call what they shared a 'relationship'. She wasn't even sure if he cared about her merely as his twin's almost widow — as someone with a twisted sense of humor had once referred to her as before George beat some sense into them — or as something more, which she hoped.

And yet, even if he was just being a good brother and fellow teammate — she had never felt as protected as a Chaser like when Fred and George were her Beaters — she basked in his warmth nevertheless and didn't dare ask for more. His arm casually thrown around her shoulders was enough.

For now.

She just wished he knew how much she cared about him.

.o.

Finally, Angelina heard what she was hoping for.

"I love you, Angelina. Merlin —" George bowed his head. "I'm sorry. I've always loved you. Sorry, I can't —"

 _"Go to the Yule Ball with me, Angelina," Fred had said. "George will be jealous and will man up enough to ask you out."_

But oh, how wrong, how careless they had been. Even Fred who knew George like no one else and valued and trusted him above any other had been blind that one time — they hadn't counted on George's loyalty to his brother. And in hindsight, it would have been so easy to see.

When she had realized it, she had merely fallen for him a bit more. And now, here he was, confessing his feelings.

His whispered "Angie?" was filled with doubts.

Stupid man, she thought affectionately before grabbing his face and kissing him senseless. A smirk tugged at the corners of her lips as she felt his lips relaxing against hers. Perfect, just perfect.

When she drew back, she said, "I've always loved you too, George," making sure to emphasize his name, making sure he understood.

The goofy smile on his face told her he had gotten the point, and she was glad to know that.

Godric, they had just been silently suffering, and now she felt a bit guilty, looking at the little twinkle in his eyes now.

George was her hope, and she liked to think she was his.

.o.

Two years after the end of the war, Angelina looked up at the man she loved and declared, loud and clear for everyone to hear, "I do!" She made sure to leave no doubts as to why she was marrying him.

George smiled before saying, "I do!" too and leant forward to kiss her tenderly on her lips.

And when his hand went to caress her barely noticeable belly, she felt her heart sing in happiness. Finally, _finally_.

She covered his hand with hers, feeling they'd just be together for all eternity.


	7. So tired (Regulus)

The Golden Snitch:

-[Challenge]The Golden Chase 2018 (Happy Birthday Harry!): prompt nr. 2  
-Through the universe: Obliquity — (words) alternate universe

wc: 517

...just some Regulus' thoughts and feelings after Sirius left...

* * *

 **So tired  
**

* * *

Carefully, very carefully, Regulus closed the door of his father's study behind himself with a soft _click_ , trying to do as little noise as possible, knowing that his father would be disturbed otherwise. And the last thing anyone could want was to upset Orion Black.

Rubbing his right temple in a failing attempt to prevent a migraine attack, Regulus slowly made his way back to the safety and quiet of his room. He felt so tired, and his legs were so heavy. He just wanted to sleep; he needed to reach his room.

Slowly, one step at a time, he climbed the stair.

 _So heavy, so hard._

He turned to look over his shoulders - his father was behind the heavy door of his study, and his mother was visiting an old friend. No one was here to see the newly appointed Black Heir unable to even walk.

After Sirius had run away, things had changed so much for Regulus that he felt like he had suddenly fallen into an alternate universe, his parents keeping a closer eye on him both to be sure he wouldn't be contaminated and to teach him an even more proper behavior since he wouldn't just be the Black Scion but the Heir. And that… that came with a lot of responsibilities and duties he had never known of.

It was no wonder Sirius had left, after all. Regulus himself felt like breaking down from time to time, but he couldn't, he wouldn't. He didn't want to disappoint his parents, and really, smiling and sitting up straight, his shoulders set, wasn't that much of an effort.

It had been his father's extra lessons to master the Black family magic that had been draining him.

He was exhausted…

But there was nothing he could do about it.

He loved his parents, he loved this family, and he was happy to suffer for them. They deserved it, and he wouldn't let them down. They had to know it.

He had seen what Sirius' runaway had done to his parents, and Regulus wouldn't put them through it again. He would just grit his teeth and get better, no matter how high were the expectations.

He wouldn't have his father locked in his study for a whole week again, working so hard he even forgot to eat or drink, until dark circle were under his eyes, until the veins on his temples were visible, throbbing in distress. He had been silent, in a foul mood. And maybe that's why he was being so stern now, making sure Regulus understood.

And Regulus certainly wouldn't have his mother wandering around the house like a ghost, caressing Sirius' possessions only to destroy them, shrieking obscenities, when someone caught her.

He put a hand on his door to balance himself before entering and collapsing on the bed.

 _So heavy, so tired._

But if his parents thought he could do it, that had to mean he could. Right?

The last thing he knew before falling asleep was a snap of fingers - _Kreacher_ \- and a soft blanket being draped around his body - _thank you_.


	8. Looking for hope (Dean)

The Golden Snitch:  
-[Challenge]The Golden Chase 2018 (Happy Birthday Harry!): prompt nr. 3  
-Through the universe: Pulsar — (setting) St. Mungo's

Dean inadvertently spots something meaningful while visiting his friends in St. Mungo…

* * *

 **Looking for Hope  
**

* * *

It had been just another day spent in St. Mungo visiting some friends that had been injured during the war, and Dean definitely didn't expect anything from it. Yet for the first time, he seemed to be more aware of his surroundings, maybe because of the war that had just ended and had sharpened his senses.

Or maybe he was just more tense than usual.

He had never liked hospitals. Sad faces, soft cries, attentive whispers, and the sour smell that he had learned to associate with medicine — St. Mungo just looked the same each time, but today, as he walked back towards the exit, he felt the intense desire to search for signs of hope even here, in this place full of pain, full of tears. Signs of rebirth. Anything that would restore his urge to paint or, at the very least, draw. The war had had a devastating effect on his Muse. He had lost any inspiration for months and now he just felt empty, utterly lost. His right hand felt foreign without a pen or a brush in it.

Slowly walking down the empty halls, he spotted a man behind an open door. He was lying down on a bed with white starchy sheets, the room aseptic and impersonal as is all too often the case. He seemed to be sleeping and was surrounded by strange, intimidating machines. A rhythmic _click-psshhh_ came from one of them. A cauldron fumed in a corner.

Sitting next to the sleeping man was somebody, slightly leaning forward as if to whisper in his ear or just be as close to him as possible. They were lovingly holding the man's hand. That gesture screamed love, devotion, any kind of devotion. They might be family, friends, or maybe — why not? — partners. Dean didn't know.

An almost threatening _click-psshhh_ shook him, and he suddenly felt bad for intruding on the two of them. Feeling guilty, he quickly retreated and resumed his slow way towards the exit, his mind focused on the scene he had witnessed.

 _Must be beautiful_ , he thought, _to have someone staying by your side, someone looking at you and waiting for you to look back._

 _Someone to grow old with._

It had not been an unusual sight, actually, to be found in a hospital, and yet it kept coming back to haunt him, as if it was trying to tell him something. It felt oddly important.

It was like yet another reminder that life can be so brief, but there was still beauty in it. And that sometimes, the best had yet to come, and sharing it would make anything sweeter, easier to bear.

Dean didn't even know those two people, but he had learned something from them, and he was sure they would be the subjects of his next paint — two hands entwined, two gazes holding each other.


	9. Always (Golden Trio)

The Golden Snitch:

-[Challenge]The Golden Chase 2018 (Happy Birthday Harry!): prompt nr. 3  
-Through the universe: (feeling) utter bliss

wc: 541

Harry may doubt it, but the Golden Trio is forever.

* * *

 **Always and Forever  
**

* * *

Always, always had Harry felt like maybe his friends would be better off without him, but he had a huge responsibility to the Wizariìding World, one that was greater than his own doubts - perhaps not more important than his friends' safety, but it was still enough to stop him and prevent him from disappearing.

But after the battle, after all those deaths, he couldn't take it anymore and had just left without a word.

How could he come back?

How could he face Ron when Fred had died because of Harry?

How could he face Hermione after she had had to cast a Memory Charm on her parents?

He was the one to blame, for everything, for everyone dying, so he had taken off, so that all those people that were so important to him could finally be happy and free. Hopefully, they'd forget all about him and go back to a normal life.

He had abandoned them all: Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Luna, Neville, Dean, Seamus, the Weasleys…

Only rarely, he let himself remember them, Ron and Hermione being at the top of his thoughts. He hoped they were together, he knew it. And he imagined them already married, maybe with a kid who'd have bushy red hair.

He missed them, but he had done the right thing, even it wasn't easy.

.o.

They found him - Ron and Hermione found him, and he should have known, for they always did.

Whatever reaction he had expected, though - anger, disappointment, resentment…a slap from Hermione maybe - that was not it.

Without a word, they both threw their arms around him, hugging him as tight as possible without breaking him - and if that hug felt like a punishment too, well, Harry couldn't exactly complain. He just stood there, astonished, grateful, relieved.

Even when they released him, he noticed that they never really let him go: Ron's hand was on his shoulder, while Hermione's on his arm. It was as if they were afraid he'd disappear in a puff of smoke, which was exactly what he had done, he thought, bitterly. It was a wonder they still bothered with him.

For long moments, they just stare at each other.

Then, "You're different," said Hermione.

"It's been three years." When she stayed silent, Harry bit back a smile - Hermione was speechless. It had never happened.

"Mate," Ron said, his eyes sad, before stopping and looking around awkwardly.

Harry, his heart warm at knowing that Ron still considered him a friend, felt guilty. He knew Ron'd let himself be burnt alive before admitting he had felt betrayed by his best mate, and he'd never forgive himself for putting the one who had always stood by him in such a difficult position.

"Hermione and I… We talked and you don't have to… I mean, you don't need us, we get it, but…"

"Ron…" Harry was overwhelmed with guilt by now.

"What Ron is trying to say is we understand why you did it, but there was no need to disappear on us. The three of us?" She pointedly looked at Ron.

"We are forever, mate," he said quietly.

"Always and forever," she nodded.

Harry, feeling like he didn't deserve this utter bliss, could only cry on their shoulders as they held him tight.


	10. Not now, not yet (Ignotus Peverell)

Written for the QLFC, Season 6, Round Eight.  
Position: Keeper  
Position Prompt: Theme - someone making preparations for their death (natural or otherwise).  
Word Count: 1379

Characters: Ignotus, Death, some OC's  
Summary: sometimes Death leads you to him...

A huge thank you to Claude Amelia Song for beta'ing :)

* * *

Not now, not yet

* * *

As soon as he lifts his cloak, a shiver runs down his frail body, and rhythmic steps resound in his ears.

Ignotus is tired and his sight is clouded by age, but that's not the reason he misses the stranger lower their hood or change their mask as they approach him, though he knows that's what they must have done — they always do.

He's only aware of the waterfall of auburn hair that ensnares the sunlight in front of him — a mere glow in his weaker eye — before a lock of it is casually aimed at the figure's cerulean eyes by the wind. He immediately recognizes that particular shade. His heart skips a beat, and he thinks that surrender may be worth it, now that he's prepared himself for this as thoroughly as he did when he first wooed his Lady Edith.

It's easy to be ready, after all. Ignotus has seen it happen often enough to know how the game's played, to know that even Death, solitary creature that he is, has a weakness: he loves Life enough to be willingly part of it for few precious minutes.

Death craves for attention, hates being neglected.

Ignotus knows it. Wrapped up in his cloak, hidden from everyone's view, he's been following Death for a while now, ever since the effort to wake up in the morning has not been compensated by the following hours of daylight any longer, ever since his body has grown too heavy and his soul too big for it.

Never one to dive headfirst into the unknown, he resolved to take notes on how Death works, the purpose of dying ironically giving his life a renewed taste.

.x.

Twice does Ignotus see Death taking lives in the middle of an action. But the point also is that Death likes to be cared for.

To old Juliana, Death appears in the disguise of a short, muscular boy, his skin dark from the sun. She doesn't even spare him a look, too intent on stirring the content of a little black pot, the gesture slow and methodical.

"Wash your hands before sitting down," she says.

"Yes, Mother." The boy smiles, smelling the air. "Oh, is it frumenty? 'Tis my favorite."

"I know."

The boy laughs as Juliana stirs the frumenty one more time, her face clearly conveying her happy thoughts: _He's here. All is perfect_.

Ignotus is standing in the sunlight as he's been watching the scene from an open window, but when a sudden cold creeps up under his robes he expects the worse. His gaze finds the portrait of Juliana's dead boy a few moments before she falls to the ground, unbreathing, the frumenty left to burn. The smile hasn't left her lips.

Death, Ignotus suspects, can't wait, and the next time he sees it happen, he doesn't have the heart to stay until the end.

William is young, apparently healthy, and whistling an old love song as he tends the sheep when a blonde maid approaches him, interrupting him. He doesn't mind it — _not yet_ , Ignotus thinks as he feels the cold breeze and recognizes the pattern, pitying the little shepherd. His heart clenches.

The boy has always had a soft spot for golden locks and freckles, and it doesn't take a fortune-teller to know William is lost.

She holds out a tiny, white hand and says, "May I have this dance?"

A soft sigh escapes Ignotus, and the girl seems to hear it. She turns towards his general direction, her bottomless eyes saying, _I'll come back for you_.

Death, Ignotus is sure, doesn't wait, but that doesn't bother him. His affairs have been in order for a long time, his will but a formality — from father to son, from father to son, endlessly. That's how things work in the Peverell family.

He still feels like he's missing something so he turns the other way, wrapping the cloak, his most precious possession, tighter around himself, and starts walking, his steps as swift as his weak knees and unsteady feet allow.

 _Not now, not yet_.

.x.

He never knows what mannerisms to look for in a crowd. On any given day, Death may be male or female, young or old, may or may not have facial hair; he may be dressed as a noble or as a peasant.

But Ignotus is not discouraged. He's figured out his own cloak craves to be reunited with the fabric it had been torn from, to feel whole again. It is evident from the way it reaches out for the hem of Death's cloak whenever he's nearby, a cold wind making them flap towards each other. So Ignotus doesn't have to struggle to go to the four corners of the known world. He really doesn't. He just follows the chilling breeze of kidnapped souls, no matter how easy, how predictable it seems.

It leads him to a crack in the ground, and now that he's close, he can hear soft moans and angry curses too. He wonders why he didn't pick up on them sooner.

He's about to reassure whoever fell in there that he'll find a rope and help them when he notices he's been preceded. Ignotus has no alternative but to lie down on the unforgiving stone to listen to their conversation. His bones grind together, but he's lucky: the two people at the bottom of the crack don't mind him, and he's spared another dizzy journey into eyes who have seen too much, absorbed too many.

"Drink." Death has taken the guise of a tall, gray-haired man, a scar visible even to Ignotus across his cheek.

"I'm sorry," says the fallen man.

"For what?"

"For not being able to save you that time…"

"Let it go."

The wind howls, covering the man's moans before he can reply: "I was afraid. I couldn't think…"

"Don't speak," Death says, his tone almost caring. "You're hurting yourself."

"You were so heavy, so pale. Gods! I-I just..." He shakes his head as if to clear it. "Gods!"

"I'm here now." Death cups the man's face.

More wind.

"Can you f-forg —"

And just like that, the scene ends, fading into a rush of wind.

A tear escapes Ignotus' eye.

Never has he seen Death so understanding, so merciful, and Ignotus wonders if that's reserved to those who haven't tricked him — definitely not to his poor brothers.

But then, who knows what's Death's purpose? It may be just a trap, a way to lull his victims into a false sense of security. Or maybe — the thought hits him like galloping horses — Death has been courting him by showing him such serene departures.

He shakes his head. "Not yet, but soon," he promises. He can't, _won't_ run forever.

He slowly gets up and goes in search of a cemetery or a church. Either of them is the only place where he can feel close to those he's lost, the only place where he can ask for forgiveness — apart from his son, he has no living connections, and everyone he's ever known is now enjoying their eternal rest.

"Very soon," he says, the idea of sleeping for a long time more and more appealing.

The tears that are now streaking his face are bitter, but their warmth is oddly comforting.

 _Death values forgiveness_ , he reminds himself. _Death doesn't appreciate being neglected_.

.x.

He's learned enough.

He's deemed himself ready.

He's allowed his turn to come. Quietly. Like a leaf falls from its tree.

"Edith," he can't help but say at the red-haired apparition.

"My Lord." She curtsies. And isn't that ironic?

She smooths her pale green gown like she did when she was —

"No, no. You're not Edith. Edith's dead, I know." He looks up, hopeful. "Have you come to take me? I'm happy to see _you_." He makes sure Death understands he's not talking about his beloved wife.

He never gets an answer — he didn't really expect one — but his whole body feels lighter. Muscles that he didn't even know he had unclench.

"Edith." It's a whisper, a prayer, a hope. His Edith's been waiting for him.

 _Now_.

And then he consciously but effortlessly lets it go.

Peace, at last.


	11. Leave poor Minnie alone (Minerva McG)

QLFC, S7R1.  
Wanderers BEATER 1 - prompt: Write about making a mountain out of a molehill.  
Additional prompts: (genre) humour, (genre) parody, (word) expectations  
Word count: 1137  
Beta(s): thank you, Aya!

Summary: during the Sorting Ceremony, Minerva hears something that may be fatal at her age.

A/N: somewhat AU because Minerva almost certainly met Harry's children before they came to Hogwarts. Also, despite what it must looks like here, I sincerely believe she was very fond of James and Sirius (and all her students actually), which brings me to the next point: this is a silly parody mixed with some OOC-ness, meant to be fun, but nothing more. Enjoy :)

* * *

 **~Leave poor Minnie alone~**

* * *

In hindsight, it shouldn't have been that unexpected. The Great Hall was the beating heart of the school, the main place where many events—none of them too quiet—tended to happen: from Howlers and feasts, to pranks and the defeat of Lord Voldemort even. Just because it was a peaceful time, it'd have been naive of Minerva to think the Sorting Ceremony would go smoothly this year. And she was in fact prepared to face many things, including trolls and nargles. But after all this time, her Inner Eye was still sleeping ( _Sorry not sorry, Sybill!_ ), putting her at a disadvantage as to what was about to happen when droves of students invaded the Great Hall.

It had been a sunny day, the kind that lifts your spirits, and the night sky that the ceiling resembled was clear and full with blazing stars. Minerva, sitting at the High Table and keeping a keen eye on the new students, leaned back slightly as the Sorting Hat did its job without a hitch, its responses prompt and loud. All was well, and she let herself relax as a brown-haired girl called Elodie Parmer ended up in Hufflepuff.

It was then that she heard it, a sound that presaged nothing good coming out of Professor Longbottom's mouth:

"James Sirius Potter."

 _James._

 _Sirius._

 _Potter._

Minerva straightened up in alarm, all her expectations for the incoming year turning upside down. She had heard rumors about the young Potters' questionable choices in naming their sons, but she had never given them credit; Harry and Ginny wouldn't dare tempt fate like that, she had thought. Erroneously.

 _Sirius James Potter._

— _otter._

— _otter._

Was the boy's name bouncing back and forth between the walls like an evil omen or was it just her rattled nerves?

She looked around, in search of what even she didn't know—sympathy, maybe. Or apologies for not informing her of this any sooner. At her age, such a shock could be fatal. She turned to question Professor Adley, responsible to send the acceptance letters to all incoming students, but he looked untroubled. Like most people, he reacted to the boy's name only when he heard the word _Potter_. Not that the surname wasn't enough to grow concerned about the next years. If half of Minerva's hair had gone white because of James Potter, Harry Potter had been the one to complete the task. But judging by the whispers running through the Great Hall, that wasn't the reason why the boy's name was on almost everybody's tongue.

As James Sirius Potter made his way to the Sorting Hat, she just wanted to shake them all. Couldn't they see the end was coming? She couldn't ask them to care about her hair of course, but she did expect them to be worried about their own.

Minerva had never considered herself an over-emotional person, but those names… that surname… coming together in one person… She couldn't help herself—a shiver ran down her spine. She was afraid. Even more so when the boy ruffled his hair, a devious smile plastered on his face. It'd have made her hair stand up if it wasn't tied up in a bun.

Suddenly, her mind was filled with memories of Potter and Black, the students that had been the biggest pain in her neck—with the possible exception of the Weasley twins, but that could be argued since without the Marauders, Fred and George Weasley might have lacked some aid.

James Potter and Sirius Black.

The two students who could have blown up the whole castle. Two of the most brilliant children she had ever taught. The ones that had always been joined at the hip. And they were now merged.

Back then when the two demons had attended Hogwarts, there was a cardinal rule among the staff: Never, ever leave the two of them in the same room. Always and irrevocably separate them during detention, or Merlin knows what would happen.

And now...

Minerva had never had faith in Divination, but even she couldn't deny—this admission tasting bitter—that the name is often a sign. If that was true, if Potter's and Black's spirits shared that one body, people couldn't vacate the school fast enough. The havoc and destruction that were to be wrought by James Sirius Potter would be unbelievable, and she wasn't sure she'd live long enough to witness it.

Mr. and Mrs. Potter would hear all about it in a Howler—she trusted them; how dare they try to kill her?

A burst of laughter that sounded like a bark reverberated in her mind while a golden snitch chased after her—her recurring nightmare was coming alive in front of her eyes while she was powerless to stop it, and nobody seemed to care. Of course, most people were too young to understand, but still…

She imagined Potter and Black as they performed their secret handshake after they had caused the umpteenth explosion that had _casually_ destroyed the Slytherin Common Room _again._

In her worst nightmares, she was always helpless.

" _She can't stop us now," Potter would say, showing his Head Boy badge off and making it glow ominously_ — _Albus was going to pay for that, by the way._

" _Prongs, leave poor Minnie alone. We have other matters to attend to."_

 _All_ poor Minnie _could think of as she faced her nightmare_ — _or was it a Boggart?_ — _was that she needed a weapon. Anything._

 _The boys hugged, blending._

Minerva couldn't restrain herself anymore.

She screamed.

Aloud.

Just like that, the Great Hall materialized in front of her again, bright and joyful, everyone's wide eyes fixed on her in concern and surprise. She envied them, so blissfully unaware of what expected them.

Fools, the whole lot of them. Unable to see.

Minerva felt a sudden pang of sympathy for Sybill Trelawney and shivered.

She sighed before regaining her composure.

"Please, Professor Longbottom," she said, gesturing to him. "Go ahead."

Neville glanced at her pensively before putting the Sorting Hat on James Sirius Potter's head, and in less than a second, it announced, "Gryffindor!"

As expected.

Minerva rubbed her temples. _Calm down_ , she told herself. _Look on the bright side: you'll need to keep an eye on just one student, not two…_

 _Calm down._

She could do that.

It was working. Minerva felt her muscles and aching back relax.

She had barely convinced herself that she'd survive another year when another name was called:

"Fred Weasley!"

No, Longbottom had no right to sound that cheerful when pronouncing it, not when her old heart almost stopped. Honestly, if she wasn't Headmistress, she'd be very tempted to skip school.

This time too, the Sorting Hat was quick to pass judgment. "Gryffindor!"

Now Minerva had no doubt anymore. Somebody up there wanted her to join them soon. No need to name names; she had had enough of them.


	12. Cygnus' portrait (Magenta Comstock)

-QLFC S7R2  
-Team: Wanderers  
-BEATER 1 prompt: Write about a character(s) striving to attain their concept of "perfection" OR write about a character(s) who is usually logical, practical, and systematic meeting someone the exact opposite of them: illogical, impractical, and spontaneous.  
-Optional prompts: (word) blazing, (colour) crimson

-word count: ~1320

-Summary: It's tradition among the Black family to have their portraits drawn, and Magenta Comstock's portrait of Cygnus Black is the envy of many people. Oh, if only they knew the dark secret behind such perfection!

A/N For this prompt, I wanted to write something about a painter and stumbled upon Magenta Comstock. According to HP Wiki, she "was a witch and experimental artist, whose portraits' eyes not only follow the viewer around the room but also follow them home." I found the idea intriguing.

Many thanks to my wonderful team and Captain Jet for their help and support, and to Aya for beta'ing!

Warning! **T-rated** for murder, character death, and mild goriness.

* * *

"Magenta." Cygnus, punctual as always, pressed a kiss to her lips as soon as she opened her front door, barely leaving her the time to look at him. Which was unusual—he basked in the attention Magenta lavished on him. That was what had made her want to keep him around while she experimented with various styles; he was so good at sitting for a portrait that had been in progress for more than three years now. Head held high, shoulders straight, muscles tense, eyes like burning embers—he never got tired.

Magenta had been struggling with this portrait more than she usually did. She was torn between the desire to enjoy this man's company for longer and the need to exploit him to paint a perfect portrait, one worth being handed down to posterity. But even her finest paintbrushes, made with ostrich eyelashes, and most expensive pigments couldn't do justice to his kindling eyes.

Cygnus breaking away from her brought her back to the current situation. The kiss had been brief, to avoid being carried away, but that didn't mean it had been a cold, detached thing. It puzzled her how Cygnus could be so proud and blazing with passion at the same time. How his chin could be so strong and his nose just that bit impertinent—yet another thing she wished she could capture on her canvas.

"Oh, Magenta," Cygnus said with a sigh.

She looked up at him, tracing her finger along his jawline. "What is it?"

There was veiled sadness in his eyes.

"You have to complete your portrait soon. My wife has been growing suspicious." He sounded both sorry and offended, as if the particular attention he suddenly received from his wife was beyond what was licit.

Magenta, hiding her own discontent, took his hand and led him to her studio. South-facing, it was always bathed in sunlight—light exposure was everything when it came to painting or sculpting.

.x.

Frowning, Magenta peered at Cygnus and then scrutinized the portrait that was floating in front of her—the skin was too pale, the colors too faded. Yet oil paint was still her best chance at giving the subject volume and luminosity.

She dipped her brush in the warm, bright red on her palette, aiming to add some rosiness to his cheeks. In reality, his face was indeed almost white, but she—and perhaps she alone—had seen him blush, so she carefully brought her brush to the portrait, adding a shadow effect to each stroke. Cygnus was holding his head higher than usual to mask his sorrow, thus allowing the sun to highlight his prominent cheekbones, and she wanted to capture that effect.

Next, she reworked on his ears and hair, but her mind was focused on his eyes. She still didn't know what to do with them. She had already used titanium to sharpen the edges of his eyes and bring some glow to them, but those silver irises—there was no established glazing mixture for silver, no spell, so she had just been working with every hue of gray she could think of. Even using silver leaf to no avail.

She was upset and frustrated. The atmosphere seemed to be lacking something. Some missing detail prevented her from being inspired.

She cast a swift, analytical glance at Cygnus. He sat still and upright. A little, haughty smile was on his lips, but his eyes, though hit by blazing sunlight, didn't speak of fire and storms as she knew they could. It was _his_ fault. Those unpleasant feelings she had were due to him, to his soul not being here. He looked at her with adoration, but it wasn't enough.

She added another layer to his lips—alizarin crimson was perfect to deepen the crevices on his lower lip.

It was then, her vision filled with red, that an epiphany on how to refine this portrait dazzled her, a simple plan involving a few tender words. She knew Cygnus was too proud to take such a huge, vulnerable step. He'd need some encouragement to say what Magenta wished to hear.

"Cygnus," she said.

He arched his eyebrow, not losing his pose. "Is something wrong?"

She chuckled lightly. "Not at all, my dear Cygnus! In fact—" Magenta took a deep breath. "—I just wanted to tell you I love you."

As soon as those words were out, his face lit up, making his eyes sparkle. His features seemed to be reflecting hers, his happy feelings echoing hers. For different reasons, of course. She was foretasting perfection, while he basked in her words.

His irises were glowing, dense with love. He braced himself for the briefest moment, then he surrendered. "I love you too, Magenta. My heart and soul are yours."

Magenta's eyes widened. Those words, gifted to her with such ease—she didn't expect it, yet she couldn't hope for a better outcome.

"Do you mean that? Truly mean that?" she asked in awe.

"Always."

At this, a gust of wind penetrated the room, making the dark curtains billow. Cygnus shivered, but Magenta, she didn't feel cold.

Her mind ablaze, she stepped closer to him, cupping his cold face with a hand and leaning down, her lips parted, as if to kiss him. Her free hand slipped in her pocket, brushing her wand, but it was a blade she drew, the same she used to tear her canvas with when trying to convey the need of going beyond in the search for infinity. Plus, when she had started mixing materials in her paintings, not sticking to just one technique, she had discovered that fresh blood was the right hue of crimson for the final layer of glazing on oil portraits that needed to be brought to life.

She stabbed him. Right through the heart.

Not a sound escaped Cygnus, except for his last breath, warm on her lips like a kiss.

She looked at his face. He hadn't seen it coming, hadn't struggled, so an air of mystery, allure, and regality was still embodied in his features. The corners of his lips were slightly pulled up into a smile. His eyes, while lacking life, blazed with love.

It was perfection, frozen in time, and it was hers. His soul was hers to do as she wished with it.

Washing her hands, Magenta picked up her paintbrush and resumed her work.

"My dear Cygnus, I gave you a new life. Be happy, because your past life was beneath you, and now, look at you. No one will be able to admire you without feeling breathless," she said as she added the last strokes and embellishments to the portrait. "The attention you craved for so much will be lavished on you by everybody, and you'll be something to wonder at and revere. Be pleased, then, with our secret, and keep it to maintain intact your charisma."

She had always hated that portraits didn't exclusively depend on the artist's skills, but the sentient part of them was up to the witch or wizard painted. Not this one.

She stepped back and admired it. What would be her greatest work was almost finished.

Magenta washed, cleaned, and dried her brushes and palette. Then, she kissed Cygnus' cold lips and banished his body to a far-away location, before vanishing the blood from her studio. These were difficult times, with war threatening to break out. No one would be surprised that such an important leading figure as Mr. Cygnus Black had gone missing—it was well known he had many enemies, after all.

Looking at those silver irises on her canvas, she came to stand an inch away from the portrait once again and exhaled on it.

She watched, fascinated, as those painted eyes grew intense and aware and _alive_ , following her every movement, his lips fixed into a knowing smile, never to be parted.

Yes, she thought, he would keep this secret.

The secret of their love.

The secret of his murder.


End file.
